Walking with Shadows
by OasisTrap
Summary: Post-Reichenbach with Pre-THoB flashbacks. Sherlock discovered a part of him he would never acknowledge. Irene came back to life just to have it threatened like never before. Mycroft crossed a line and put all of their lives in jeopardy. Someone is pulling the strings left by Jim Moriarty and no one is safe. Sherlock/Irene
1. Prologue

AN: I promised a sober Sherlock story, here it is! The rating's K+ for now but I'm going to warn you: there will be blood. Lots of them. There will be dark themes and explicit stuff. Not in this chapter, though. Sorry.

This is Adlock with a dash of Mycroft vs a big, bad villain. The title is inspired by Macbeth's most famous soliloquy (I have a lot of Shakespeare feels recently) which I may or may not explain later.

Beta-ed by my dear friend alpha mike foxtrot (without spaces)

Note: all my knowledge about British Intelligence Services are from tv shows.

**This chapter took place after The Reichenbach Fall**

* * *

Empty stares that Mycroft Holmes received from his hosts were not unlike the features of his superiors twenty hours ago when he was presenting his proposal for this highly confidential project of great importance. In the end, the Americans were more skeptical, whereas Whitehall merely shrugged and admitted themselves into unwilling agreement. This most likely was the result of Mycroft's differing deliverance of information to both sides.

* * *

"_We're not the Americans. We don't do indelicate, violent measures. We acquire an asset and we invest in it. We let it go. It will lead us down the rabbit hole eventually." He said as he stapled both his hands under his chin. "This operation is necessary to take over the control of a valuable asset that was once ours. This asset is more likely to be damaged in their incompetent hands."_

"_Admit it, Mycroft. This is just you trying to make amends for losing the said asset." The head of MI5 calmly stirred the milk in his tea with his intense stare, the spoon abandoned on the side of the cup._

"_If you put it that way, Harry, I will not object nor acknowledge it." He was prepared to make this negotiation as harmless as possible._

"_Pakistan was a disaster." His tone was cold. No love for failures._

"_Pakistan was a test." Mycroft retorted in suppressed impatience._

"_For God's sake, Holmes, we're still trying to pick up the pieces you left by blowing all our Middle East contacts for—"_

"_Don't overstep your jurisdiction, Tramley." The Home Secretary snapped at the MI6._

"_Overstep__** my **__jurisdiction?" A scowl was directed at the man at the head of the table. "Am I supposed to believe that nonsense?!"_

"_That's enough." A pointed look from the head of the table sent them all into a quiet reverie. "So we recover this asset from the star-spangled bastards," a sigh. "And then what?"_

* * *

"You will not succeed in developing this asset. Its motivations are too vague for your side to handle. We can control it, you can't. It was ours in the first place. I suggest you return it to us to avoid risking any unwanted future dispute that it might trigger, considering its capability of such things." His chair was highly uncomfortable and it didn't allow him to move an inch without being seen as restless. But it brought out an elevated air of superiority inside him. This was a Holmes in his element, and the game was just starting. He saw the sweat breaking on the Director of the CIA's forehead, his first small victory.

"So we give you what you want, and then what's in it for us? Mycroft, I'm afraid I don't see what kind of deal you are trying to strike here."

Finally, the right question. Mycroft savoured the tension of withholding a name that will direct their attention to where he wanted. It was the longest and trickiest string that he took from the cold hands of the very much dead Jim Moriarty. The question remained; who was the puppet, Moriarty or the other person at the end of the string? This operation would produce the answer and hopefully erase the existence of Jim Moriarty from his guilty conscience forever.

"Gentlemen, allow me to reacquire the asset and I will use it to bring you the head of Sebastian Moran."

* * *

Catherine Walker probably shouldn't have opened her door to a stranger at midnight. Let alone gave him a sight of her purposely seductive nightgown. But she was convinced that the M9 pistol she held behind her back would make this encounter bearable, and she was supposed to have a hoard of undercover agents roaming around her house, watching her every move.

After all, in this side of LA, safety was the first thing their property retailers prided on when they were escorting their potential buyers with considerable wealth and strong desire to live peacefully. Or people like her with dangerous secrets seeking for an ideal hiding place, fully funded by the taxpayers' dollars.

She only opened it halfway through, regretted not having a chain to hold her door and made a mental note to add one. Unfortunately, it was too late.

The stranger blinked once at the light coming from inside and strengthened his jaw. He dipped his head lower to stare straight at her suspicious eyes, being two feet taller than her. There was an unimpressive display of his white and rather healthy teeth as he sneered before he rumbled in a low, threatening voice. "Irene Adler."

He took a quick one step ahead past the door, pushing her inside.

She managed to balance herself and avoided his grip. At the same time, he slammed the door closed.

He pulled out a knife with his right hand and lurched forward to grip her right arm and restrain her from drawing the M9, but the trigger was already pulled and a bullet was wasted. One shot ought to be enough to tickle the ears of her unreliable watchers.

She twisted his right hand, pressing the significant joint of nerves she instinctively recognised with her thumb and made him drop the knife due to his immobilised fingers. With a slight kick she sent the knife sliding away out of reach.

When she attempted to twist his hand, he overpowered her. Pulling his hand free and slapped her hard on the face, forcing her to move backwards one more step into her living room.

She lifted the gun again but this time he didn't give her any chance to shoot, grabbing her wrist so hard she could almost feel her bones breaking. The gun was gone. Any sound it made when it hit the tile floor was drowned by her loud exclamation of pain. She didn't scream, she would never admit it.

His knee jerked upward and hit her stomach. A gust of breath left her mouth as she fell onto a glass table in the middle of the room, broke it into pieces, and sent the shards flying.

* * *

AN: I hope it delivers. Send me a review, critique, or point out something that doesn't make sense. Should I continue? Should I stop because it's too awful?


	2. Chapter 1

AN: It's all going down here. (Not really)

Beta-ed by alpha mike foxtrot (Without spaces)

* * *

The leap in her heart rate constantly sent a dose of adrenaline through her veins, numbing her limbs, her bleeding wounds. A considerably long time had passed and everything was completely still. She had crawled to retrieve her M9 from the far corner of the room and was now gripping it tightly with both of her shaking hands, still trying to control her breathing. Her right hand was almost definitely broken, its fingers barely clenching the gun. She was also aware of glass shards sticking out from her back and the length of her arm, though none of them went deep enough to cause paralysing pain. Didn't want to take any risk of getting deeper wounds, she avoided leaning to the wall and stay seated on a side of the floor where it was free of glass shards.

A rough groan filled the room, interrupting the sound of her loud breathing. The stranger was lying in the middle of the living room with both his hands and legs bound with plastic cuffs. He opened his eyes and cast a hateful glance at her, finding out that he wasn't able to move his limbs at all. Irene smiled coldly, returning his glare as gracefully as possible with blood running down the side of her head.

She had managed to poison him with a concealed needle she hid in the modified folds of the knickers she wore. A new habit she developed after the last surveillance job mishap she experienced with a rather desperate and furious Russian criminal. He was three feet taller than her and capable of snapping her in two if wasn't dosed by her strong mixture of sedative.

One can never be too careful in death, after all.

The thing that bothered her more than this stranger's bold attempt to kill her was that he had been the first to call her that name ever since she died in Pakistan. The last time she heard that name spoken was by now a very much dead person. She could hear him now in her numb delusion.

_Irene Adler is dead. You're a free woman._

Suppressing an uncomfortable tightness in her chest, she gripped the gun tighter and held her stare against the stranger's menacing eyes. She had decided to say nothing at all, talking would give away information, no matter how small and insufficient. Him knowing she was alive was enough. After all, the name he uttered from his mouth a while ago was not a question.

It was exactly ten minutes after the accidental gunshot from their previous struggle. The front door opened forcefully and a group of men in black jackets barged in, unceremoniously grabbed the stranger and dragged him out. They moved without noise, trampling on all the mess around them in silence. Or so Irene thought, having heard nothing beside the ringing in her ears and saw blurry image of them passing her in quick strides.

A blonde woman wearing gloves and carrying a medical kit entered swiftly after their exit. She ran to her side and opened her mouth, saying something. Irene couldn't hear her. She touched the gun in her hands gently, making her drop it helplessly. The voice she heard next was definitely not the woman's. It was the continuation of her illusion, a low, rumbling voice of a man, now dead.

_Alright…._

_You're going to be alright…._

Her last memory of that night was the oxygen mask she forced to put on her face, and then darkness.

* * *

The white ceiling of an anonymous medical bay and its medicinal alcoholic smell convinced her she had regained full consciousness.

The presence of Mycroft Holmes on her bedside felt otherwise.

"Don't move. You are safe, for the time being." His icy tone reached her ears. "Never get tired of misbehaving, I see, even after you're dead," a dangerous edge came creeping into his voice. "Twice."

She managed a weak twitch on the corner of her lips before the pain in her head struck. She had to breathe deeply to gather herself. "To what I owe the pleasure of your visit, Mister Holmes?" She managed to say weakly. "Are you here to witness the proof of your own brother's misbehavior in person?"

He smiled humourlessly. "How was Pakistan?"

"It was_ lovely_." She purred.

"Either you're doing a very bad job of covering your tracks, Miss Adler," He shifted on his foot. "Or you purposefully reveal yourself to me by playing _liaison _in the intelligence market and getting under _my_ skin. Your apparent relationship with the Americans is…" He paused. "…putting _us_…" The personal impression in his list of accusation was dropped. "...in an uncomfortable position. You see, they think they struck gold by marking you as their asset." The irritated smile returned.

"Hmmm, did they?"

"They were very smug about it."

"I'm sorry, must be so annoying for you and your Whitehall friends. But I'm not their asset, not entirely. You can see it in my contract. It's a very _loose _one."

"That's why I'm here. But first, do please tell me,"

Mycroft could sense her interest peaking. He had decided to give her the satisfaction of knowing the roots of his curiosity.

"Why would a woman who lost everything in the game came back to play it with higher stakes?"

Her smile this time was positively predatory.

"I was bored."

He stared at her with contempt. He couldn't hide his anger any longer. Her words had struck a nerve, a very sensitive one that he usually associated with his brother's intolerable behaviours. The realisation of this doubled his anger. He had known her answer, that after a life full of danger she couldn't simply submit to a domestic, mundane life. After she nearly brought down a nation to its knees, she couldn't just forget the taste of victory over immense power, however brief it was. But her exact words were unbearable for him.

Mycroft had made the head of the CIA sweat like a pig under his intense pressure in a tricky negotiation. He had gained the approval of the most powerful men in Britain's intelligence services, delivering a promising prospect of his mission. He did it all with a reserved manner that was seemingly effortless.

His temper was only reserved for his brother.

And now, apparently, Irene Adler had broken his carefully crafted defence.

Irene Adler, ever the dominatrix, even without her sexually domineering persona.

_Brava._

_But, be careful, Miss Adler._

He would walk away from this room as victorious as with his other negotiations. He had, after all, the advantage.

"Ever the determined woman, you are." He sneered. "I'm here to offer you a contract with us."

"That much I had grasped, Mister Holmes, since you mentioned your discomfort with my relationship with the Americans." She pushed him to reveal his further intention.

"Me and my Whitehall friends, as you call them, can raise the stakes even more for you. Pakistan was meant to be a test. Now that we know you survived, we are offering you the contract that we supposed to give after Pakistan."

"You're planning to put a leash on me."

"Not quite a leash," He searched for a word. "An insurance. Your loose contract with the Americans is not enough to provide you proper protection. The assassin at your door this morning? They weren't even trying."

"I can walk away from their contract anytime, Mister Holmes. I assume I wouldn't be able to do the same after I signed _yours_."

"A very comfortable leash, then."

"Nice try. I'm not interested."

"What if I offer you to play on the same table with Sebastian Moran?"

A deafening silence fell for a moment.

"He doesn't exist, Mister Holmes."

"How could you be so sure about that? Isn't he the one who has been trying to kill you? Aren't you running away from him? He's the only one smart enough to see you as a threat."

"Sebastian Moran is a myth, only his name lives."

"Like Jim Moriarty, once upon a time."

"He didn't exist either. I saw the news. He was Richard Brooke all along." She humoured him.

Mycroft phrased his next question very carefully as it led to the most crucial part of this negotiation. "Then you believe that Sherlock Holmes is a fraud?"

Irene flinched mentally at the mention of his name. "Of course not." _Is? _"You're saying he's still alive." She couldn't hide the surprise in her tone. But of course, why else would Mycroft Holmes be here? Everything he said about her liaison job and Sebastian Moran had to end with Sherlock Holmes. It was about him all along.

"He is."

She felt a foreign warmth enveloping her from the inside. _No more illusions._

"He is now in New York, chasing Moran's tail."

The warmth disappeared suddenly, replaced by anxiety.

_There she is. _Mycroft read her changing expression. At the mention of his brother's name, she had definitely lower her guard and let her emotions appear, if only shortly. He readied himself for the next line of words coming from him as if uncertain with his own judgment to bring them into this conversation.

"I did a terrible thing." He said this to imply that he assumed the position of a lower man. _Only to bring Irene Adler into submission, _he thought ironically as he saw that she didn't react in any way to his statement. "I made a deduction of my brother's heart."

She swallowed, her throat felt terribly dry. "I don't understand."

"I know what happened in Islamabad."

"That was not the matter of anyone's heart."

He raised his brows at her struggling indifference. "We both know it was very much otherwise, Miss Adler."

* * *

AN: _Liaison _here means she's playing courier and selling information from the underworld (sorry I just had to) to the American big boys (CIA, FBI, take your pick). Selling in exchange for what? Money? Sometimes. Protection? If it's big and they could manage it, why not? Mostly she just love playing the game, discovering what people like ;) I always thought that's what she's going to do if she couldn't become a dominatrix anymore after Pakistan.

But what the hell happened there?

I'm not telling. Review first.


	3. Chapter 2

A/N: Without further ado, I give you chapter 2!

Beta-ed by alpha mike foxtrot

* * *

_Click._

As he suspected, at this height and wind velocity, the lighter in his hand wouldn't give a spark at first try. So he slipped back the stun gun in his other hand into his pocket to shield the lighter from the wind, bending slightly with a cigarette between his lips, he flicked his thumb again.

_Click._

_Damn this cheap American lighter._

_Where are they? They should be here five minutes ago._

_Click._

A spark died out.

_Click._

The rooftop access door swung open.

He didn't bother looking. He couldn't care less. They wouldn't ask any question or regard him in any way. He knew they dislike him, even though he was the one doing all the work for them and all they have to do was clean his mess. It was not unlike his job before this.

_Click._

For a moment he was taken aback by the sound of footsteps coming his way.

_Light, swift, a woman's._

She was alone.

He frowned and straightened himself to finally look properly at the person coming his way. When he saw a glimpse of her face, he returned to his lighter and flicked it forcefully for the last time. It lit up and he inhaled his cigarette deeply, somehow needing a reason to explain the waver in his chest to himself other than _the woman_.

As she approached, Irene scrutinised the sight in front of her: Sherlock Holmes stood towering beside a body on the ground, smoking his cigarette with calm. He looked paler than the last time she saw him. His hair was much shorter without curls, although long enough that the wind could blow a strand covering his right eye.

Not wanting to give a wrong impression by staring at his face for longer than necessary, she diverted her attention to the unconscious man. She noted his uneven breathing and the slight tremor of his outstretched right hand. She also noticed traces of saliva on the edges of his mouth. A purposefully handled and fully loaded sniper rifle stood ten feet away from him, surrounded by its bullet casings. A worn golf bag was lying nearby. The rifle was directed to the building across the street, she couldn't see precisely where.

Meanwhile, Sherlock assessed her with his piercing eyes. A series of unsaid questions in his head, but knew better than to break the silence first. He said nothing, letting her deduce what he's been doing on her own.

"You electrocuted him." She said, just loud enough to be heard over the wind. "He's still alive."

"Why do you think I'm still here? I need to make sure he stays down until the cleaning party arrived." He grumbled in annoyance, strongly suggesting her presence as irritating and undesired.

She smiled, the corners of her lips barely reached her eyes. She looked at his face properly this time. Bloodshot eyes and the rough quality of his voice suggested he hasn't slept for days. "You don't look happy to see me."

"Should I look _happy _at all?" He mocked, not in the mood to withstand her teasing.

"At least you're not dead." She shrugged, avoiding his glance.

Sherlock squared his jaw, unable to form a reply for once. Was _she _the one who's happy to see him? _Ridiculous_, he dismissed the thought. Her statement could mean anything and he didn't have the means to read her like any ordinary person. She was anything but ordinary.

He couldn't see any change in her, same length of her hair (loose, therefore apparent to see because of the blowing wind), same features (_long black coat, not thick enough to conceal her shape, nor thin enough to suggest any considerable change in her bodyweight_), same eyes (he seemed as drawn into them as before, nothing new there). He observed her make-up (_professionally done, by herself, obviously_), feeling like he was missing something. She was hiding something. She always wear a mask, metaphorically, but this time Sherlock felt she was wearing one that is closer to the literal sense.

"Who is he?" She asked, gesturing at the unconscious sniper.

Sherlock hesitated to form an answer. Should he tell her straightforwardly or not? How much information should he give away? He considered the facts about her.

Her appearance here was almost definitely the work of Mycroft. Only he could disclose his exact location. He found her, how? _Did she reveal herself? Did he look for her?_

He sent her to him, why? But by doing so he revealed a part of his hidden agenda concerning _him_, a plan still unknown to Sherlock. This realisation triggered a strong reaction of distrust for his brother inside him.

"Mycroft sent you." He spat. "Why? What does he want?" _Did you sell yourself to him? What have you done? I didn't save your life for you to rub it on his face._

She held his glare. Her expression gave away nothing. She didn't falter at his harsh tone. If anything, she became more resolute of her purpose here by steeling her determination that was apparent in her eyes. Sherlock could feel himself boiling with silent anger, or whatever the warm feeling in his stomach was.

"Your 'cleaning party' will be here shortly, I'd rather not to be seen by them. I just came by to say hello."

She turned away to leave. He reached out to pull her, and when he grabbed her right arm she winced in pain. He loosened his grip only slightly, wanting to maintain the upper hand in this situation. Irene glared at him with anger that could match his own in intensity, but he refused to back down until she gave an explanation.

"Answer me."

"You better be careful, Sherlock." She hissed, leaning closer to him. "In New York, you won't survive falling down any building."

"Is that a threat?" He growled, answering her challenge.

They locked their eyes for a moment longer before she yanked his hand from his grip. He let her.

"The next time I see you again, I hope we will be alone." She said calmly, regaining her composure. Instinctively, she raised her left hand to cover her right arm. _Injured? _He mentally noted his observation before processing her words further.

Ah, so she changed her mind to hold anything she wanted to say to him after she found out he didn't kill the man. She was careful to the point that he cursed himself for not thinking so.

"And when will that be?" He quietly asked, searching her face again for an answer.

She kept her expression firmly cold. "Dinner."

At that point, he knew it was the end of their conversation.

She smirked at him the last time and walked away to disappear behind the door.

The long cinder at the end of his forgotten cigarette dropped. He tossed it down and stepped on it.

* * *

Dinner was three days later.

Sherlock spent the whole three days after the rooftop conversation to track her to no avail. She disappeared like a smoke, and New York was not safe. His movement was limited. His last target was the closest link to a higher authority in Sebastian Moran's network. Taking him down was already a risky step coming from his part, he wouldn't want to reveal himself just yet.

On the evening of the third day he opened the door to his temporary safe house, a plain flat in a decent neighborhood, a rare find in this city. His mind was filled with the ongoing interrogation of his target that hasn't yielded any success, and he was contemplating on the idea of contacting Mycroft to confront him directly about Irene. But immediately realised that it would make him seem affected by her sudden appearance and thus give his brother a reason to undermine him.

In the wake of his deep thought, he picked up a peculiar scent on the doorway. It was a hint of perfume mixed with, oddly enough, Chinese takeaway, reminding his brain that he haven't digested any proper nutrition for almost a week and made it triggered an unwanted reaction from his stomach. Baffled and disturbed, he walked into his bedroom to find Irene Adler asleep soundly on his bed.

She was facing away from the door, nestled under his blanket. Her damp hair and the wide opened door to his bathroom suggested she had been here since at least two hours ago. He spotted her complete attire (_implying that she wears absolutely nothing underneath the blanket_, he gulped) folded neatly on his bedside table, as if she deliberately put it there for him to see.

The sight gave him an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu and something else entirely that was seeping into his chest to restrict the beating of his heart for just a brief second. Nonetheless, he had to admit, seeing the woman again in one piece was not unpleasant. That was as far as he can admit to himself concerning her presence and the various uneasy reaction she had (hopefully) unconsciously provoked from him.

He looked away some undeterminable time later from her, walking into his empty kitchen to find a plastic bag worth of two portions of food and a bottle of red wine. The notion of her 'dinner' seemed oddly literal this time. He wasn't sure how he should respond to that.

So he lay down on his couch, stapled his hands under his chin, and waited.

Irene came out ten minutes later with weary eyes. She had stolen his second-best dressing gown from his wardrobe. She folded her arms and asked him where he put his glasses.

* * *

Dinner was tolerable.

They drank wine in whiskey glasses that she found somewhere on the deepest corner of the kitchen drawer. He let her have the first bite before turning to his own food. He finally succumbed to his physiological needs and finished his portion in a less-than-delicate manner. He expected her to make a joke about 'the hungry detective', but she kept quiet during their meal.

He felt like he discovered a missing link in a formula that resulted in a wrong output.

He had to rewrite it in whole.

_Delete._

_Confirm theory first, ask questions later._

She disposed whatever left of their dinner and reached out to pour another glass of wine. He caught her wrist midway. She froze, catching his eyes with a daring look; a silent _go ahead_ behind her half-hearted smile and quirked eyebrow.

_Pulse, elevated. Still?_

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He tightened his fingers gingerly around her wrist and trailed them along right her arm, pushing up the long sleeve of his dressing gown. Touching her fresh bandages gently, he looked at the late stages of discolouration and innumerable scratches on her exposed skin. He felt her shuddering ever so slightly from his touch.

"Recently broken." He quietly said.

"Obviously." She replied, somehow breathlessly.

"If I look at your back," He leaned closer to her ear. His eyes darted at the skin behind her neck. "Would I be able to find more scratches?" He noted the dilation of her pupils and saw a faint scar on the side of her face. It explained her unusual make up the other day.

"In addition to the souvenirs from Karachi, you mean? Or do you just want to undress me, Mister Holmes?" She stretched her last sentence with a seductive tone.

He didn't react to her words and pulled away. "You picked a fight with a man twice your size…and not only once since we last met, I presume."

"They came after me." She shrugged.

"Who?"

"Killers."

He scoffed and said angrily, "And I thought Islamabad was enough to keep you away from misbehaving - seems like I was wrong."

"Did you really think," She coldly asked. "That I could have a normal life after Pakistan?"

"Of course not." _You are anything but normal. _"But I'd rather see you alive, Miss Adler. With killers trailing you, everything I did in Pakistan seems wasted by now."

"Sherlock, I am alive. I already thanked you for saving my life in Pakistan. I am perfectly capable of handling killers now."

"Which brings us to my next question," He gritted his teeth. "What are you doing here?"

* * *

A/N: The upcoming chapters took place post-ASiB in Karachi/Islamabad. In the meantime, please do leave a review ;) I could use the harsh words to whip my muse


	4. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry folks, life gets in the way but reading a John Logan struck me with sudden inspiration so here's the next chapter with the dead body I promised!

Beta-d by my dear friend alpha mike foxtrot

**This chapter took place before THoB**

* * *

The constant whirring of the wheels filled the silence.

It was a roughly 17-hour drive to Islamabad. From the speed they were going, Irene could tell he was determined to make it in less than that. They had been driving for nine hours and twenty minutes without stopping.

Sherlock haven't said anything more than a word since they escaped the terrorist camp ten hours ago and Irene was getting concerned. He had thrown his blood-covered black robe six hours ago out of the window to be picked up by the strong wind heading east and was now only wearing his usual plain black shirt. He couldn't care less about his bloodstained face—that and his expression of reserved anger made him look manic under the headlights of the passing cars.

As the eastern skyline brightened with shades of light, she saw his grip on the steering wheel loosened and he took a long breath of silent relief. That was when she finally noticed the blood on his face was his own.

"Sherlock, you're bleeding." She had to say it twice before he responded with a curt nod.

"I was. It has stopped."

"It could be infected." She paused as if momentarily baffled with her choice of words. "Stop the car, I need to see it."

He flexed his jaw in consternation, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. "We're not stopping."

"Fine, just stay put."

Irene rummaged around the car's drawer to find a first aid kit and began cleaning his wound. With her practically caressing his temple, to his dismay, Sherlock was terribly distracted. He was aware that she had stayed silent until now to give him time to think. He gritted his teeth and considered telling her everything after weighing the facts since they started this long drive. She deserved knowing, after all.

"What's in your mind?" She seemed to have sensed his hesitation.

He froze for a moment. "Your execution was unplanned. By now I figure you already know about your MI6 escort letting them caught you three days ago."

Her smile was sarcastic. "You're saying that your brother didn't just send me here to die, I find it hard to believe."

"He is not that kind of person." Sherlock felt uncomfortable defending his older brother, but nonetheless it was the undeniable truth. "He had a plan. He let them take you so that he can confirm the position of their hideout. It was perfect; you were to save a longtime prepared SRR operation. They were stuck on a rut and you came at the right time to point them at the right direction. They were about to raid the camp and save you. But someone warned the terrorists. Someone tipped them off about the operation. That's why they decided to execute you so early, they were planning to escape and they couldn't afford to take their prisoners with them."

Her next question put him off. "Does anyone know you're here, doing this?"

He glanced at her and answered in irritation. "Of course not. Why would I tell anyone I'm going to Pakistan just to make sure you don't die pathetically in the hands of-"

"Make sure I'm not dead?" She quietly inquired. "All by yourself?"

Sherlock grimaced. "I have a contact in the MI6 who informed me about your movement. My contact claimed devoid of any other information besides your sudden transfer to their Pakistan field agent authority. I assumed the worst considering the heightened terrorist activity under their radar and the rapidly increasing number of missing field agents."

"You didn't know about the SRR operation, did you?"

_Bond Air all over again._

"I just figured it out yesterday when the terrorists started panicking and decided to execute you. It was a separate operation and MI6's data about it were non-existent. Mycroft's work, undoubtedly." He admitted with the smallest hint of shame in his voice.

"So if the terrorists haven't been tipped off about the operation…"

"There is a big chance I am going to die tonight when the SRR raid the place and you would survive." His anger resurfaced. "Someone is playing with us."

She didn't respond to his words. She finished tending his wound and asked him worriedly. "Sherlock, did you purposely ask your MI6 contact for information about me?"

He blinked. Trying to keep sentiments at bay was getting harder. "Yes."

"You were keeping an eye on me." Her tone softened. "Why?"

He turned the car to pull over at a gas station and hit the brake without answering. They were running out of fuel and in need of supplies. He took a cap and a pair of glasses from the car's drawer. They would have to suffice as a disguise in the time being.

"Stay here. Keep your head down and wait." He said coldly.

So she climbed into the backseat to lie down and closed her eyes, trying to sleep her uneasiness off.

* * *

_Run, he had said. But where?_

_She was trapped in a closed quarters with guards outside her door._

_Twice a day two men would come in. One of them always holding a rope and the other one would ask questions in broken English. She never said anything and they would flog her thrice at the end of every question. As an ex-dominatrix, she tried not to think of the irony of the situation at hand. Not when her life was the one at stake instead of her dominant status._

_Two days passed and after the dawn of the third day they dragged her out. She was blindfolded and thrown into a vehicle. She knew they're going to kill her._

_They asked her final wish, hoping to reserve the little honour they have left._

_She asked for a text message._

_She heard the sound and met his eyes._

_Run, he said._

_But what happened next? Her memory drew blank._

* * *

She opened her eyes and covered her mouth to stifle a shout. She was covered in cold sweat and struggling to breathe. Sherlock eyed her through the rear mirror with curiosity in his eyes.

"We will arrive in one hour." He informed. "You slept for four, despite your nightmare I dare say you're rested by now."

She sighed in answer and rubbed her eyes furiously. He didn't say anything for the next five minutes, giving her time to breathe.

"Why Islamabad?" She asked with hoarse voice.

"My MI6 contact is there and there's a safe hideout in the city. You will find a bottle of water under my seat."

She took it and drank as much as she could before speaking again. "Your contact sounds suspicious. He could have deliberately given you incomplete information. How could you find out the exact number of their missing field agents but not the SRR operation?"

"I hacked their database." He rolled his eyes. "I wasn't going to trust my contact blindly, Miss Adler. I had to do my own research. But you're right, that's why we're going to visit him later."

"What are you going to do?"

"He's handling the necessary documents. Your new passport and ID, the plane tickets…I'm taking them from him. Afterwards, I'll put a gun to his head and make him talk."

* * *

When they entered Islamabad, it was late morning with clear sky. The traffic was heinous as they entered the city. They were going to be delayed for a considerable time as they were heading to a northern part of the city just outside the border.

Irene was seated on the front seat once again. Her head was turned to her side to observe Sherlock intently. She was amazed at how he seemed to be terribly stiff under her gaze and trying to ignore her continuously. That wasn't going to work with them stuck together like this for another good half an hour, so she started to bait him into conversation.

"You're quiet." She simply said.

He didn't answer at that. She decided to ask him about last night, suppressing her discomfort for the sake of curiosity. "Last night, after you told me to run…what happened?"

Sherlock turned his head, meeting her eyes at last. He assessed her firm expression and realised. "You lost your short-term memory due to shock."

"I think so." She replied. "It's all a haze in my head. The next thing I remember is the streetlights along the highway from Karachi to Hyderabad and you," She tilted her head. "On the driver's seat, blood on the side of your face. You drove furiously."

"It was adrenaline's high." He said dismissively.

"How did we escape?"

He went silent for a moment, searching her eyes. "How's your back?"

She blinked and bit the inside of her bottom lip. "My back is fine." She lied.

"No it isn't. I only cleaned your wounds with alcohol because we didn't have time to cover them properly. You slept on your side earlier, you're still in pain. You're holding back." _And you're doing it admirably, _he thought. He didn't see her flinch even once. At first he was sure it's because of her own adrenaline's high she didn't feel any pain, but even during the 15 hours of their drive, aside from her slightly restricted movement, she didn't show any sign of having a recently bleeding wound on her back.

Irene wasn't sure what she's seeing in his eyes, something akin to admiration? It made her slightly irritated. She didn't need it, not now when they could be dead in this foreign land anytime. She certainly didn't need the unfamiliar feelings it triggered inside her.

"You don't remember trying to push me away while I was tending you? You were very insistent." He lifted his brow.

"What?"

The sound of horns made Sherlock turn his gaze forward to see the line advancing. He shifted the gear and lifted his foot from the brake, leaving her unanswered question hanging between them.

* * *

They stepped out the car thirty minutes later in front of an apartment. Sherlock told her to put her headscarf back on and now she was sweating uncomfortably under the sun. It was midday and she was sure the temperature is more than 30 degrees Celsius by now.

They climbed two floors up, passing three doors on each floor. Irene couldn't hear anything behind most doors. From a couple she could hear cluttering noises of people inside of even smell strong spices of the food they're cooking. She assumed the rooms were mostly empty.

When they reached the apartment of Sherlock's MI6 contact, she could sense something was wrong. Sherlock eyed a pile of envelopes on the floor next to the door. He then turned his attention to the door's handle, it was spotless.

He looked around suspiciously. "Come closer, we need to get out of here as soon as possible." He pulled his shirt's sleeve to prevent his hand touching the handle directly and pushed the door open. She crowded him from behind and held her breath.

A man was waiting for them inside.

Irene winced at the sight of him. Sherlock slipped into the room and motioned her to get inside.

"Close the door, careful not to leave any prints. Don't contaminate the crime scene."

She closed the door behind her. "Your contact." She said quietly, trying to look anywhere but the man's eyes.

They were frozen in absolute horror and his pupils halfway visible beneath his eyelids. His eyes almost rolled fully into his skull. His head was tilted back and his jaw opened widely because someone stuffed a piece of black cloth inside. This was their first sight of the room as he was tied onto a chair facing the front door. The curtain behind him opened halfway and a line of sunlight illuminated half of his face from behind.

"Mid 40s, smoker—" Sherlock gestured to his fingers, it were slightly yellow on their tips. "Strangled, by something plastic—" He took three long strides to his side and leaned closer to point at the marks on his neck. "Killed yesterday afternoon. The mail arrived this morning." He jammed his fingers inside his mouth and pulled the black cloth. "The killer, or killers, left us something."

There was a piece of paper inside the bundle. The words on it were written in uppercase. _To disguise the handwriting, of course_.

**DEAR HOLMES**

**I HOPE YOU ENJOYED YOUR TRIP**

**LET'S PLAY SOME MORE**

The lines were peculiar, as if someone had written them with shaking hands. Behind was an address of a place somewhere in the city, tomorrow's date, and a time: 2000.

Sherlock folded it in two and stuffed it inside his back pocket. His heart pounding faster, he was thrilled at the prospect of being challenged by a potentially very dangerous adversary.

"What is it?" Irene asked him. She saw his lips curled to form a smile.

"An invitation."

Despite their situation, the ease in his tone made her heart skipped a beat. He was in his element and it felt good for him. She, on the other hand, was unnerved by his excitement, but at the same time relieved to see him in this state. He was gaining confidence and that was good for them.

She certainly hoped so.

Sherlock searched the man's pocket for a clue and was surprised to find a wallet. He opened it and raised his brows. "He's not my contact."

Irene stared at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"American journalist," He held out the man's ID. "I remember his name. He was reported missing in Afghanistan last week. No existent families, according to the picture of his dogs in his wallet." He flipped it to her to show a picture of three dogs—all German Shepherd.

"You've never met your contact." She said pointedly.

"Of course, face to face meetings could be dangerous." He diverted his attention to their surroundings. "The room has been cleaned," _Indicated by the strong smell of disinfectant_. "They were very thorough in wiping their traces. But…"

He walked to a small drawer beside the bed and opened it. There was a safe inside.

"They didn't touch this," He said as he examined it. "They were too busy." It clicked open after he entered a combination.

Irene peered beside his shoulder to look inside. There was a sealed, thick brown envelope at the bottom. "That would be the necessary papers, yes?"

"Yes. I wouldn't encourage you to use them more than once, though." He stood up and waved the envelope. "With the disappearance of my contact and everything that has happened, the passport might be unreliable for long-term use. Burn it after you get out of here."

She nodded, trusting his judgment on this matter completely.

After they were seated once again inside the car, Irene asked him about the piece of paper. "The one who wrote it… do you think it's the same person who tipped off the terrorists about the SRR operation?"

"It's a possibility, yes." He turned the key in the ignition.

"Do you have any theory about who it is?"

"Two—one, it's a mole." Sherlock could hardly think Mycroft overlooked it, but it wasn't impossible. "Two, there was a leak of information somewhere, considering most of the people at the Government are idiots," He scoffed. "And someone is clever enough to take advantage of it."

* * *

A/N: SRR = Special Reconnaissance Regiment. Also, my knowledge of them are limited to what's in their wikipedia page. (Please don't hurt me)

Send me your angry message with the review.


	5. Chapter 4

A/N: I'M BACK and this is where I earn the M rating. Turn away, children.

Beta-ed by my dear friend alpha mike foxtrot (without spaces)

**This chapter took place before THoB**

* * *

An old man shook Sherlock's hand enthusiastically.

In his head, he was completely happy. He had made an admirable deal of trading a simple black sedan in his possession with this strange American man's well-maintained SUV. At first he was skeptical when the man proposed it through a phone call last week. But this afternoon, after checking the condition of the car, he couldn't be more willing to accept. Maintaining his business was getting harder these days, and he wouldn't pass this deal.

He even helped the man and his very quiet—very beautiful—wife move their suitcases into the black sedan. They were just moving in and the man explained that an SUV wouldn't be very convenient for driving in the city. He said they were very relieved he could do this transaction today all of a sudden because they didn't have time to call him again after last week.

The old man accepted the papers and shook Sherlock's hand again. He complimented his very good, if not fluent, Urdu speech. The weird American smiled and thanked him.

* * *

It was 5 PM, one hour after they acquired the new car. They had driven back to the city centre to check in to a hotel. Sherlock presented a French passport for identification and languidly accented his English with heavy French. Irene had to suppress her amused grin as he talked with the receptionist in length about the available rooms.

The female receptionist blushed every time he slipped into French and apologised gently in his low, rumbling baritone voice. Irene mentally shook her head but secretly impressed at his seemingly increased skill in charming people. It was definitely better than his bleeding vicar persona.

Shortly after, Sherlock opened the door to their room and told her to come in first. He glanced both ways at the empty hallway before following her inside. It was a regular room with one bed and city view; he had chosen the sixth floor.

Irene opened one of the suitcases and raised her brows before glancing at him suggestively. The suitcase was filled with women's clothing.

"It would be suspicious if you board a plane without any baggage." He said in a flat tone.

"You went as far as buying me knickers for that?" She lifted a black lacy undergarment with the tip of her fingers and smiled mockingly.

"I didn't buy them myself," he rolled his eyes. "But they're in your size, of course."

"You remember my size," She stated firmly.

Sherlock just stood there with folded arms, looking at her like a displeased child who had caught red-handed stealing from the cookie jar. Irene sighed at the man, quite unable to see him as the one who saved her from a group of terrorists just last night. If she didn't know him, she would say he was embarrassed.

"Fine, I suppose I have to thank you for this too." She briefly weighed in her mind how much she owed him and reminded herself to make Sherlock explain his actions later. For now, she needed a shower. "I'm going to clean up, if you don't mind." She took a towel from the wardrobe and walked into the bathroom. "Unfortunately you need to mind the door, Mister Holmes, to keep the terrorists at bay. Don't worry—there will be another time where you can join me." She gave him a slow wink before closing the door.

Sherlock glared at the bathroom door for a moment with an unsaid, scathing remark about unwanted gratitude held in his throat. She was returning to her old self already and certainly had overcome her initial shock, but it would take a longer time for her to recover from the traumatising experience.

The sun was setting as he moved to the window to close the curtains, glancing briefly at the traffic outside. He closed his eyes in sudden exhaustion. He thought about the message—the one in his pocket, weighing his conscience. He thought about the notion of spending one night in this room with Irene Adler—the unforeseen circumstances. He thought about the plane ticket in the brown envelope—the flight was for tomorrow afternoon. But in his mind's eye, all he could see was…

…_the darkened concrete floor around an anonymous woman's body. She was put in kneeling position, bending forward. Her head was on the ground, several metres from her neck. Sherlock was reminding himself the details of the body again: weight, height, age, cause of death, every detail of her previous health history, every bone she had broken. A flawed specimen would not be accepted for the design; she must be perfect for his cause._

_And she was indeed; he thought as he stepped back from her to assess his craft, making sure everything was in place. The mess, the dirt on her head, her hair, to the smallest bit of leftover flesh under the moonlight._

_He had worn a pair of new rubber gloves and took off his shoes to wrap both his feet with plastic as precautions, trying to keep them clean. It wouldn't do if all the blood he was staging mixed unnecessarily. He had a clear picture of how the landscape would look like from the eyes of a criminal detective._

_Fortunately, it was a terrorist execution ground and there were better things to do for the Pakistani Authorities than analysing the many and confusing blood samples. Still, he couldn't take any risks._

_He turned around to check another body behind him._

_Ten minutes ago the man was still choking blood from his mouth. Now he lied motionless, his eyes frozen with fear. The blood pooling around him had stopped flowing from the gaping cut on his neck. Half of his face and his upper torso drenched with blood._

_Sherlock didn't hesitate when he dipped his thumb into the cut on the dead man's neck. He could feel the raw flesh on the tip of his fingers through the thin rubber. When he pulled his thumb back it was covered in enough blood for him to do the next part of staging the dead man's role in his scenario._

_He proceeded to write a word on the man's forehead._

غدار

_Traitor_

_He then took off his rubber gloves and walked to put it away inside his equipment bag that was lying nearby. From it he took a new pair of gloves and cleaned the scimitar that was covered in the anonymous woman's blood carefully before turning back to the man._

_He ripped open the dead man's clothes with his gloved hands, finding no difficulty in doing so. While examining his naked body with cold detachment, Sherlock fully intended to treat him as a mere experiment. Another one of those cold cadavers he borrowed from the morgue. _

_Use now, dispatch later. It didn't matter._

_He killed this man. It didn't matter._

_The consulting detective had planned to do it since two days ago. Two days since the coldness of his objective spread over and emboldened him entirely._

_It didn't matter._

_Two days ago, Sherlock observed this man came out of the prisoner's cell with his comrade after questioning Irene for the first time. He was laughing whilst unconsciously stroking the rope in his hand. They conversed animatedly and the disguised detective was able to pick up some words they spoken. The brute talked about threatening the prisoner further because she wasn't willing to say anything at all and having a good time for themselves while doing it. Their prisoner was, after all, a fine woman. His friend just shook his head and told him to get lost._

_In the coming days, Sherlock knew the man was still very much eager to carry out his intention of ravishing their prisoner. He could see it in his eyes every time he saw her; the imbecile was undressing her in his mind, imagining the most revolting actions. He knew what would happen if Irene had stayed more than two days in their camp. Knowing how highly she held herself, he was sure she would have chosen to die instead of giving herself to this man._

_His heart rate elevated for the second time that night._

_He took the scimitar and angled it horizontally underneath the man's pelvis after he spread his legs wide open. With his left hand, he took hold of the man's circumcised penis to cut it off along with his testicles. Playing the role of a betrayed comrade, he moved to cut carelessly and made a considerable mess._

_As he threw the multilated body part in his hand beside the anonymous woman's head, he felt numb. His head was pounding furiously as he reminded himself he was almost done._

_Almost…_

_He took off the second pair of gloves he wore and put it away with the first, sealing them with care. If his hands were trembling, he certainly didn't feel it. He was satisfied that they were spotless._

_The equipment bag clattered in his grip as he ran to a rock hill 300 metres away. A car was hidden behind it. He knocked on the passanger window twice before opening the door. Irene was sitting behind the front seat on the floor of the car, hugging her knees. She stared at him with wild eyes._

"_It's me." He said quietly and put his bag on the seat. "I need you to take the first aid kit in the front drawer."_

_Without saying anything, she stretched to the front seat to reach the drawer. Sherlock saw her grimaced in pain. He wouldn't ask if he knew she couldn't do it and he needed to know how far her wounds were affecting her._

"_I need your blood." He said as he took out two secured syringes from his bag. She handed him the first aid kit._

"_You need my DNA." Her voice was hoarse. She watched as he took a bottle of alcohol and pieces of cotton from the kit._

_He nodded. "After that, we need to tend your wounds. You were questioned two hours ago, they might be still bleeding."_

"_No."_

"_What?" He frowned at her._

"_We don't have time," Her eyes held his gaze with startling ferocity. "And after you burned the bodies it would be too dangerous to wait here any longer."_

_He never said anything about burning the bodies, but she was right. "Fine, I'll just clean them. They could be infected."_

_She still looked unwilling, but she didn't have much choice._

"_Now, give me your arm." He reached up to flick the interior car light switch and….._

…he heard a muffled shriek coming from somewhere nearby. When he opened his eyes to darkness, in a brief moment of blindness, he thought he was waking up from a nightmare. As his eyes adjusted to the insufficient brightness of Islamabad's night from the window, a feeling akin to fear gripped him. The ghastly sound he heard was not a dream.

* * *

After he opened the bathroom door, a cloud of steam came out into the room. The damp air was heavy with heat and the shower was running hard with hot water. The whimpering noise continued and intensified in volume.

Sherlock's mind rarely presented him with the luxury of confusion, and his emotional detachment kept him away from the most trivial of feelings. But as he saw Irene, he found himself at lost and ever so slightly afraid. She was standing under the shower, bracing herself to the wall with both hands and struggling to stand on shaking legs. The steaming water ran hard over her naked back, exposing all the bruises and open wounds, angry diagonal lines on her white skin, the markings of her pain. The blood had run down the drain a moment ago and he didn't understand what is happening as she was clearly hurting herself.

"Irene," his throat constricted in a surprising flood of anxiety. "Stop."

A sharp intake of breath. "Get out." She snapped.

He ignored her words and stepped out of his shoes and socks. The slippery bathroom tiles felt warm under his feet as he reached a hand to turn the water off. His clothes were drenched by the time the water stopped.

Irene slid down on the floor, the sound of her ragged breathing echoing in the room. Her eyes screwed shut and her lips trembled. "I'm not done yet." She muttered angrily, suppressing a sob.

"It's going to bleed again." Sherlock said matter-of-factly as he wrapped her back with a towel. "Can you stand?"

She didn't answer as she pulled the towel tightly to herself.

A sigh. "Do I have to carry you out on my arms, Miss Adler?" He deadpanned.

Annoyed, but slightly comforted by Sherlock's irritation, Irene stood up slowly. "Keep your hands to yourself."

"You're still in pain and you're going to sway on your first step," his tone was flat and emotionless. "Also, you've drowned the room. I intend to save you from light concussion."

She opened her eyes and turned to him. "Fine." She said icily.

Sherlock froze at the sight of her before him. Her eyes were red and heavy-lidded, the blush on her cheeks had spread to her collarbones and her wet hair was hanging loose in front of her face. He had never laid his eyes on something so menacing and attractive at the same time and certainly a woman never occurred to him as one that could hold a key to produce such result from the complicated workings of his comprehension method.

Irene Adler's most vulnerable state was also her most dangerous, he decided. He locked the memory of this rare moment away in his mind palace.

Her arm felt fragile in his grip, but he didn't let himself believe it.

* * *

Irene was aware of what transpired in his touch. She could feel every single one of them linger and measure their proximity with the increasing beating of her heart. The coldness of the room didn't have anything to do with her shivers, so did her fully exposed body. Even the pain on her back had become a dull feeling she couldn't bother to react to anymore.

She sat hugging her knees on the bed, the wet towel with the briefest stench of blood on her damp head. At least three pieces of gauze had been taped onto her wounds by Sherlock who stood behind her on the side of the bed. There were only two other bleeding cuts that she was aware of and he was swabbing them lightly with antiseptic cream, pushing himself too hard to be gentle. It made her stomach fluttered uncomfortably and she decided to stop him.

"I am not made of glass."

"You are certainly not."

Nothing else was spoken for a moment.

Suddenly, out of the blue, she burst with frustration. "If I didn't have five bleeding cuts and a dozen bruises on my back, I might have already fucked you hard and long enough on this bed to discern your doubts and pity for me, Mister Holmes."

His hand froze momentarily, but he didn't say anything as another piece of dressing was taped on her back.

"I know why you're here," She swallowed. "You unearthed my heart by defeating me in the game and you felt something, you reciprocated. Stop me if I'm wrong," she stretched her neck slightly backwards to glance at him. His expression was a vacant stare in the corner of her eye. "You never felt _something_ like it and you didn't understand. Your need to understand how every bloody thing works brought you here, but most of all, you need to convince yourself whether it was real or not."

Sherlock continued to stare down at her, unmoved. "Was it?"

She blinked. "What?"

"You seem to hold all the answers, Miss Adler. Was it real or not?" His venomous tone contested her tense façade.

Slowly, she turned to look at him fully and slid her feet down to touch the soft carpeted floor. Before she managed to answer him with a blunt statement, he spoke again.

"I killed a man yesterday." Sherlock informed her in a cynical, non-sequitur way, like giving a favourable weather report in the middle of a barren desert. "It was unnecessary but I did it anyway."

For a moment, nothing was said. "Was it self-defence?" She said the first thing that came into her mind, hiding her bafflement.

"I said," He took a breath, as if to calm himself down or preparing for a hit in the face. "It was unnecessary."

Was he angry with her or with himself? "Who did you kill?" _How far has the damage been done?_

Avoiding her question, Sherlock bent down and lifted his hand to the side of her head, gripping stiffly like initiating a half-hearted stroke with taut fingers, his thumb stroking the side of her face. She was almost sure he was holding back with all his might from pulling her hair and strangling her. But she dare hoped he was just uncomfortable in doing such intimate gesture like touching her deliberately because he just wanted to.

When he spoke, his face was inches from hers and it betrayed no emotion, just the depth of his narrowed, cold eyes. "You're the one who manipulate emotions and toy with people," he hissed. "Do you think that what I'm feeling is real?" The question came out in a strained voice that made her heart clench.

There was a wasted moment of hesitation. "If I say it is because I can feel it…" Her widened eyes searched his gaze, trying to tell him that she understood the unsaid. "You'll deny it anyway. A disadvantage," an angry sneer appeared on her face, a twisted disappointment. "That's what you call it. So I might as well admit I know it is real, Sherlock, because unconsciously," she grasped his hand in hers. "You're showing it to me, right now." _I can see it in your eyes._

For a moment, she entertained herself with the thought that he wanted to believe her words. He wanted to believe it wasn't an illusion on his part like it wasn't on hers. But his gaze wavered from her eyes and he pulled away, breaking his hand free from her grasp. "Right now it's irrelevant."

Her chest tightened, suffocated from the distance he put between them. "I agree, it would be highly inconvenient for me to have sex with you in this state." She said dryly. "Pain would outweigh the pleasure."

His face hardened and for a fleeting moment she saw distaste in his eyes. Or was it a kind of pain in itself? She couldn't tell and it only made her frustration grow.

"Wouldn't it always?" _With you, yes._

* * *

A/N: I can't write fluff, I really can't.

But tell me what you guys think!


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